


La Marseillaise

by thecat_13145



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Character Death, French Revolution, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Major Character Death!, Not A Noble! Treville, Revoluntionary Musketeers, Revoluntionary Treville!, alternate universe - french revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-09 02:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12267339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecat_13145/pseuds/thecat_13145
Summary: Treville's Death marks the begining of the end of the revolution. It's only later that they will all understand that.





	1. Against us tyranny's Bloody banner is raised (Denial)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts), [Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Forever. (Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449944) by [Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox). 



> So 2015 was not really a good year for me for various reasons, but something that helped a lot was the wonderful Musketeer fic that Kyele & Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox were producing. One of these was Forever. (Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité). It's still one of my favourite Stories and in the comments afterwards, they were discussing the impact of events of the events in that story (If you haven't read it, please go read it now, it's amazing!!!!) would have had on the Musketeers. A further story was discused, but :shrugs:
> 
> My brain got hold of the plot bunny and ran with it. This is the result and I apologize and will remove it immediately if it offends either the author or the giftee. I also apologize to Any French subjects offended by use of La Marseillaise and quotes from the verses for the chapter titles. I was struggling for ideas and the connection ended up as a obvious one. 
> 
> This story was also written while I was experiencing the 5 stages of grief, so if some of it seems a little odd, It's a bit personal and I'm very odd. I accept this. Please enjoy.

There are times when D'Artagnan can honestly see the man, the noble; Athos could have been, if fate had not interfered.

 

Standing there before the Republican tribunal, words flowing passionately from him, D'Artagnan can believe why these councils say that such nobles are dangerous. If even the Cardinal had had three Athos, then the revolution might not have happened.

 

(He would never say so out loud of course, especially not to Aramis. Aramis, who had exploded when Athos calmly explained what he planned to do. Porthos andD'Artagnan hadn’t exactly been thrilled about it either, but Athos, whose stay in the Bastille had only sharpened his natural practicality and stoicism had being firm.

 

“There is nothing we can do, nothing anyone can do, to save Treville’s life.” He had said, “And even if there was, I’m not sure he would thank us.” He had looked from one to the other. “Do you honestly wish Treville to spend his last moments confronting that which any soldier fears most, the loss of a limb?”

 

“The head ain’t exactly an arm or a leg” Porthos had grumbled, but Athos had simply shrugged.

 

“We have all heard, all seen it. Lips moving in prayer after death, eyes staring out at the crowd as life leaves them. I have spoken to the physician, Lemar. While he himself denies a belief in such things, he does admit he can’t rule it out.”

 

“And more than that,” He had added while Porthos muttered something under his breath. “Do you wish them to see this? To mock him in his final hours, he would have saved them all? To feel the heat of the flames through a flimsy shirt, to hear the click of needles?”

 

“A firing squad ain’t exactly a walk in the park.” Porthos had admitted, but the sound of defeat had being in his voice. “Men can live in agony for hours after that!”

 

“Depends on who is on the firing squad.” Athos had said calmly, which made D'Artagnan wonder exactly what the other man was up, and how much Aramis had said in Spanish before he had stormed out.

 

There is a fire in the room, in spite of the summer heat. D'Artagnan longed to stand closer, to try and get some warmth into his frozen body, but he cannot.

 

The chimney wants cleaning, the burning soot filling the room like a bonfire. Like the ones which always seem to spring up around like guillotine. Burning anything, rubbish mostly and he’s not imagining it, there really is the click, click of needles.

 

His eyes roam the room, searching desperately for the source of the sound.

 

Mon Dieu, what do these women find to knit continuously?

 

He would ask Porthos, but the other man would only laugh at him, and he daren’t ask Athos.

 

He has visited the convent at La Fere, far and safe from Paris. Has stood awkwardly in the doorway, while Athos sits almost in silence with the women and her knitting. So gentle with her, more like a sister or a cousin than a wife. He hadn’t even know who she was until they were leaving and he had asked Athos who was she and the other man had smiled sadly before replying “My wife.”

 

What Ninon knits is not open to debate, its shape is unmistakable. A shroud, though whether for herself or for her husband or even her rapist is open to debate.

 

Athos rarely speaks with her and even rarer touches her, but he ensures with the good sisters that there will be sufficient wool to allow Ninon to continue her knitting. If anything were to happen to Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan would ensure that the wool continued. Once he would have said Treville as well, only it seems he can’t say that any more, can he?

 

His eyes dart around the room, still looking for the source of the knitting, but the only woman he can even see in the room is Anne, sometimes called Milady and she is reading and very obviously not looking at Athos, for which D'Artagnan is grateful.

 

Anne’s regard of Athos always makes him think of a Cat watching a game bird hung up outside a butcher's shop. It’s pointless, which should make it pathetic, but only makes it worse. Even without Porthos and Aramis, there is no room for any other woman in his heart.

 

Everyone knows the story. It’s repeated often enough as an example of what they are fighting against.

 

How Athos was born into a noble family, technically still owns estates out in Normandy, though he has granted his tenants their land and their freedom. How on a visit to court, his young and beautiful wife attracted the attention of one of the bourbon princes (or possibly even the old king). How when Athos refused to permit his wife to become a royal mistress (and possibly even challenged the proposer to a duel) he was imprisoned by letter de cachet. How the royal prince had his way with the lady, but (and details here are a little scarce, more from fear of Athos than any decency), her mind was destroyed.

 

Treville had found Athos or according to Athos, found a worn out husk of a man beaten by nearly 10 years imprisonment. Had spoken to him, brought him food, books, reached out to him and saved him.

 

Brought him to the revolution.

 

D'Artagnan can’t make sense of this. Can’t understand why they are condemning the captain for what had to be a mistake or a lapse of judgement.

 

He hears a soft thud over the click of the needles and turns to see Athos kneeling on the floor and it’s all wrong and he wants to cry out, to scream, but he can’t.

 

He can’t because Athos made him swear he wouldn’t.

 

“Whatever I say, whatever I do.” He had said, staring into D'Artagnan's eyes. “You will remain still and silent.” So he doesn’t move, but it’s wrong, very wrong.

 

Athos is one of the strongest, one of the most courageous men D'Artagnan knows. His bravery at the Barricades saved countless lives and he is here, kneeling, begging before these men who aren’t worthy to lick his boots. Before those who crawled out of the wood work after the danger was past.

 

He wants Treville to be here, to tell Athos to stop acting like a fool.

 

He wants Porthos, though he understands the other man needs to be with Aramis, to try and help him process.

 

He wants to go back in time, to unsee Treville holding the Cardinal’s hand and looking broken and tired. Like they had lost rather than won.

 

The click click of the needles continued and god where was it coming from? Will it never stop?

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

 

_200 years later, a mother will be confused at the panic of her son’s awakening, as she knits, a sound as far away from gunfire as any she can imagine. The inquest two months later will put the cause of death as war neuthisa, with extreme sympathy extended to the tricolores, who looks at what was meant to be a scarf for her son to keep him warm in the trenches._


	2. What does this horde of slaves, Of traitors and conspiratorial kings want? (Anger)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the scene that Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox and Kyle discussed. I hope it does justice to what you had in mind. It isn't very nice, but it wasn't going to be.  
> This is Treville's execution and there is death and blood. Please do not read if either of those are triggers

The anger was good. It was like fire burning through him, warming him in spite of the cold of the morning. In spite of D'Artagnan's bellowing and Porthos silent commendation.

 

They couldn’t understand. How could they? Only Athos could come close to understanding what it was like to lose someone you loved like that, and Athos hadn’t really love Ninon anyway.

 

Aramis had stopped then, surprised by it as much as anyone.

 

Ninon was off limits, except as an abstract idea. As the victim of la Droit du seigneur.

 

If Athos had chosen to punch him, to challenge him to a duel, to stalk off, he wouldn’t have being surprised. It wouldn’t have changed anything, but it wouldn’t have being a surprise.

 

But it’s the pup that gets to his feet, glancing from Aramis to Athos and back to Aramis, and then leaves shaking his head. In the distance, they can hear Madame Bonacieux, a widow and fellow revolutionary, trying to find out what is going on, and the door slamming.

 

There’s a moment of complete silence, before Porthos got to his feet.

 

“Guess I’d better go after him.” He said, glancing at Athos, avoiding Aramis’s eyes, which makes Aramis want to scream even more, because how dare Porthos judge him? Porthos knows what he’s being through. He of all people should understand why he has to do this.

 

It’s the same reason that the king and the queen must die.

 

Justice.

 

She was so pleased, so proud that the Cardinal had taken an interest in her. Boasted to her brother about…

 

The door shuts behind Porthos and he realises that Athos is standing by his side.

 

“I was in the Bastille during the ……recent trouble.” He said softly. “I saw a man being executed by firing squad. The bullets pierced his gut. From my cell, I could hear him screaming. Must have being few minutes, but it could have being hours before the captain walked over and slit his throat.”

 

Aramis made no reply.

 

Extract the cartouche from his belt, bite off the paper, sparing a glance, but his bribe has being worth it. A lead bullet stares up him, as he empties the paper packet down the barrel, careful to keep the angle correct. Too upright, and the powder will clog the musket. Too vertical and the powder may ignite before it is ready. He’s seen more than one man lose a hand or a finger that way.

 

Ram the shot down into the barrel. He could do it blindfolded, has done it blindfolded before now. Bets and demonstrations of his skill.

 

Captain Treville had taught him. Drilled him and a thousand others in the hot sun.

 

_How could he?_

Replace the rammer in its holder.

 

Treville had being his commanding officer, his friend. Had saved Aramis’s life, when the Marsac was exposed as the Cardinal’s creature. Had put a bullet in the other man before Marsac could fire.

 

Had he known then?

 

Had it all being a bluff? Spies killing each other to protect their secrets.

 

He shook his head. He remembered the Captain’s hand on his shoulder as Marsac bled out. “They can get under your skin. Make you forget.” He had swallowed. “Where you belong. Who your friends are.” He had squeezed his shoulder. “He was a good soldier. Remember him as that.”

 

They lead them out together.

 

The Cardinal walks forward proudly, like this is a stage and he is the principal actor.

 

One hand wrapped around the crucifix around his neck (the one he always wears, the one thing even Adele had never seen him without), the other clutching Treville’s hand.

 

Treville walks like a man in a dream. He stares blankly, seeing nothing. His eyes flick over Aramis without a flicker of recognition.

 

Treville was the bravest man Aramis ever knew. A fine speaker. The man who unlocked the gates at Versaille. One of the first into the Bastille. Has brought men to the revolution than any. Certainly more than the lawyers and parlement who condem him.

 

Treville was a good soldier.

 

He hears the order “Ready”, not that there’s any need. They’ve all been ready since the prisoners were led out.

 

A shot to the heart. It will be appropriate. The Cardinal ripped out his heart and now he will destroy his. Treville stands straight and tall, his hand still wrapped in the Cardinal, like they are one.

 

_They can get under your skin, make you forget where you belong._

 

“Take Aim.”

 

_Who you’re friends are._

 

He steady’s the musket, sighting himself in.

 

The Cardinal pauses to look at Treville. It’s the same look Porthos had given him that morning. The one that’s love with mixed with worry and sorrow because you know that there’s nothing you can do to stop their pain.

 

“Fire!”

 

The musket crack in a volley of smoke and before he can think, before he can understand his actions, he’s jerked it around, the bullet flying straight into the captain’s brain.

 

The Captain falls to the ground and dimly he can hear the word “Jean”

 

But it could just be in his head.

 

The Cardinal is still alive, though not for long. A bullet pierced his side and the blood is slowing out of him. Aramis walked over, determined to see.

 

The electric blue eyes gaze up at him. There’s a moment before recognition takes place, then the Cardinal glances towards Treville and back to him.

 

His lips are moving, trying desperately to form a th sound and Aramis falls to his knees, hurling his guts up like a rookie after his first kill.

 

**************

 

_200 years later a young man is jerked awake by the sound of a gunshot and the feeling of something wet hitting his face._

 

_His hand jerks up and comes away red._

 

_Turning, he sees the body of his comrade lying beside him, half his head missing. His hands fumble to the waist, reaching for the revolver that should be there, only to hear the sound of it cocked against his head._

 

_Turning again, more slowly this time, he finds himself staring into Adele’s eyes._

 

_Words tumble out of him. Words like mia Amour and pourqui? She laughed, as the Captain in General Franco’s army winds his arms around her waist, his own weapon pointing at Aramis._

 

_Her laughter is the last conscious sound he will hear._


	3. Our brows would yield under the yoke (Bargaining)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did originally plan this in a logical progression, but it wouldn't work. Richelieu demanded his own chapter, then Porthos wouldn't co-operate until the end, so I'm very sorry about this.  
> It takes place the night before Treville and Richelieu are executed (so before the previous chapter)
> 
> The final scene is technically part of my other mustketeer Fic, Treville's boarding school for troubled youths (https://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=3355630#cmt3355630) but you don't need to have read it for it to make sense. If you do want to read it and leave me a comment, please do so. I need to move it over at some point (and finish it)

Historians would say that it was inevitable. They always did, liking to see the progression from past to present as though it were a river rushing to the sea, it’s course predetermined by God or the Divine Being or whatever else they believed in.

 

They would patiently trace the revolution back through the Tennis Court Oaths, The Wars in Europe, the Court of Louis XV & XIV. Some of the really firm ones would even trace it back to the policies of his ancestor, Cardinal Richelieu and a few might even take it back to Adam.

 

They were wrong. The inevitability of the Revolution could be traced back to when he saw a name on a list of soldiers congregating and discussing treason. Midway down the list, as though it was of no importance.

 

De Treville ,  Jean-Armand du Peyrer 

 

It could have being a mistake. It must have, he told himself in the days afterwards. 

 

Jean had fled the house and the army was the logical place for that hot headed young  Gascon  to go, but…. It couldn’t be Jean.

 

He told himself that over a thousand times, repeating it like an Ave Maria or Paster Noster. Jean would not be stupid enough to listen to these traitors  _ (Jean had listened to him when he had spouted ideas dangerously close to the ones that these fools whisper in darken rooms _ ).

 

Jean and he had grown up together, milk brothers and friends long before they were anything else. Jean was a good man, a gentle one. He would not - _Jean’s father had being killed by the Austrians and the King was a fool. Not even the most loyal of his ministers could deny that and Richelieu would always count himself among that number._

 

The nobles had taken everything from Jean (F _ rom Armand too, but it was best not to think of them. They were a boy’s dreams and had no place in a man’s world. Even if his most ambitious schemes paid off… _ )

 

He delayed. He delayed and waited, for confirmation, while this movement gained strength. When Armand had first discovered it, first heard rumours of its treasonous talk, it had been maybe one hundred strong. A swift (and bloody for no mercies could be shown to traitors) blow and it would have crumpled, much as had happened in Louis XIII when old soldiers had tried to ensure rebellion under Monsieur. 

 

By the time confirmation came to him, it was too late. A chance meeting or apparently chance for he had been sure for weeks that it was Jean, had told him everything. Jeans face had always being an open book to him and he knew…

 

Even then, had he moved swiftly, it might not have been too late. Too late for Jean, but not too late for France. A parcels of treacherous army officers, caught, broken on the wheel ( _ Jeans hand in his, his face white as every step of the horse jolted his broken collarbone as Armand wondered each time if it would be better to leave him and go for help. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t leave Jean _ ) and properly displayed would have frightened the parlement, broken their spirit.  ( _ But it would have broken him first _ ).

 

He prays for the first time seriously since he was a boy. Prays, begs, trying desperately to find a way to break this conspiracy, but save Jean.   

 

If he arrests the others, but not Jean, then someone will give his name under torture to save his own skin or because the pain of the tortures is too great. That relies on Jean not doing something stupid like attempting to rescue his comrades and the Jean he knew would have attempted that. 

 

If he speaks to Jean, tells him the truth, that he knows all about their schemes, the treason that they talk, then Jean will just warn his conspirators.  It might break the conspiracies, but more likely it would move things ahead. The loyal guards (and there are some, not all the names on the list are guards) will rise up and the conspirators will be massacred  _ (Jean will be massacred) _ .

 

He delays while the situation worsens. While Finance ministers try desperately to make the books balance and the king seeks compromise.  He delays while the harvests are poor and the people starve. While the Queen is humiliated in pamphlets and the King mocked as a cuckold. 

 

Delay until...Jean was in his room in the middle of the night and for a minute he thought...perhaps it would have been better if it had ended there. If Jean had cut off his head or he’d put a bullet…

 

Jean had risked his life to save him. 

 

No one else had done anything.

 

He manages to get away and to stay away while the King and Queen are recaptured (by a postmaster of all things) and forced back to Paris.  Humiliated, imprisoned, stripped of his royal title, he knows the king’s end as clearly as his own. 

 

The question had merely being when. And, perhaps more importantly would Jean care?

 

He glanced down at the figure asleep. 

 

At least that question had being answered.

 

He could have left. Others had managed it. To slip on a ship to England and once the Irony of that would have made him laugh. The old enemy now the only refuge.

 

But he’d stayed. Waiting for Jean.

 

He’d want to make Jean look him in the eyes when they took him. For him to understand that his death was on his hands. 

 

In the stables, where he’d stayed, he watched the sun set through the doors, dying the straw red and had thought it was inevitable. That he had being a fool to think anything else. 

 

He had heard the horse rode up and watched as Jean climbed up. He remembered wondering almost idly if Jussac was dead or merely a prisoner. And Jean was there and…

 

He’d lied to Jean. He knew it was already too late. That if he had any decency in him, any mercy, he would have left Jean. Told him to go back. It mightn’t have been too late.

 

On the pallet bed, Jean shifted; muttering in his sleep and Armand leant over to adjust the blanket. Jean wasn’t sleeping much, or perhaps he was sleeping too much. Moving like a man drunk or in a dream since La Rochelle. Like his mind simply could not comprehend what was happening around them. 

 

Armand had had to try and plan for both of them.  Had tried to make Jean understand. The summer nights were cold, could be treacherous. It was not inconceivable that Jean might have being entangled with him to prevent his escape. Unlikely in the extreme, but Armand had sold less believable excuses to people over the years. 

 

But Jean had held his hand and wouldn’t let go, and even Armand can’t come up with any excuse to explain that away. And Jean’s eyes told him that he didn’t want him to.

 

That Jean had accepted and in a strange way made his peace with death. 

 

Armand hadn’t. With his own death, perhaps, but not with Jean’s ( _ Never with Jean’s _ ).

 

The journey back to Paris, while his hand still clutched Jean, his mind was working, trying desperately to come with something-a fall resulting in a head injury, temporary insanity, true insanity- anything that would spare Jean’s life. Jean is a hero, a Captain of the Republic. They won’t want to kill him. Won’t want the scandal.

 

He’s almost come with something that might work, when he hears a voice calling “Treville.”

 

A beardless youth was pushing his way through crowds, with an ease and determination that reminds him of Jean. A  Gascon . One look at the boy is enough to tell him that, but with that lean look that comes from too much danger and too little food. 

 

He watched as the expression on that dark face turns from pleasure to confusion. See the others come near. See the same confusion echoed in these three faces and understands who they are. Jean’s men. The ones he betrayed Armand for.

 

He notices other things that he’ll examine more closely later in the cell, when his mind is still numb. That they stand close together. Too close even for comrades who have seen each other through many battles. That one of them looks vaguely familiar, like he knows him, but that’s impossible. 

 

One of them is speaking, demanding to know what they are doing; his French good, his accent noble almost like Armand’s own. He hears the sneers of the guards and sees the flash of anger across the other man’s face. See the largest of the groups hand twitch near his weapon. 

 

The Noble one is still speaking, insisting that there is some error. That the Captain had being on a personal manhunt and he could hug the other man. Because if this one believes it, then he can make others believe it, if he can only get Jean to let go of his hand.

 

His mouth is open, about to say that what he’s being trying to tell them for the entire Journey, when Jean’s voice small and soft, but still with a note of command in it, tells the other man, Athos, to stop.

 

And he looked at Jean. Really looked at him and realised that this was inevitable. That there was nothing he could do to save him.

 

He’s remembers bits after that. The insults of the Bounty hunters who found them. The boy yelling that they were liars and being physically restrained by the largest of the trio, who looked like he wanted to be sick. The familiar face twisted into a screaming mask. But truthfully it’s something of a blur, as Jean doesn’t collapse in his arms; more seems to withdraw towards him. Away from the world. 

 

They throw them into a cell together. A small mercy and one he is grateful for. He sits for hours, whispering to Jean’s name, muttering until Jean’s hand grips his tighter and the eyes focus back on him.

 

“Armand”

 

His cheeks are wet. He doesn’t remember crying, but he must have done. 

 

“I am sorry, you know.” He says, because he is. Because this is all his fault. If he’d just left when he had the chance.

 

“Don’t be.” Jean’s voice sounds old, tired. Perhaps they both are old. Too old for this. “Armand, Don’t be”

 

“I never wanted it to be this way.” Because he didn’t. He wants Jean to live. He wants Jean to live, even if he dies, even if the whole world falls to pieces, he wants Jean to live.

 

“I know” Jean laughs, but there’s nothing funny in his voice. “I know. But it was never going to be any other way.”

 

And Armand wants to argue because it could have. It should have. If his parents hadn’t caught them (Jean would still be safe in Richelieu). If he had found the conspiracy before Jean got involved (because Jean might be one of the ringleaders, but he wouldn’t be one of the initiators, he wouldn’t). If he had the courage to arrest the conspiracy in its early day (he could have arranged it so that Jean was just imprisoned).  If he could have persuaded Jean to tell the Bounty hunters that Jean had been hunting him and had found him first. If Jean had just stayed away….

 

“Damm it Jean why couldn’t you just stay away?” He can’t keep it in any more.

 

“If it had being me, tell me you wouldn’t have done the same.”

 

And Armand wants to scream. To shake Jean and tell him that he did. He could have looked for Jean as soon as he left home, came to Paris. He could have approached Jean after he met him in the gardens at Versailles. He would not be the first courtier, the first priest, to smuggle a lover of whatever sex, estate or rank in. But he didn’t, the thought of the punishment for sodomy echoing in his ears.  

 

All he wanted was for Jean to be safe. 

 

But look at the other man staring up at him, he realises that it really is inevitable. So Armand just sighed and pulled Jean against him, holding the other man until he slept.

 

Armand can’t sleep though. He’s still sitting here, scheming, trying to come up with some way to save Jean. But the dawn is coming and the ending of this story is as inevitable as the sun rising.

 

*********

_ 1936 _

 

_ “Armand, please.” Jean’s voice is begging in his ears. “It’s just a nightmare. Nothing happened. I’m safe. We’re safe.”  _

 

_ He’s gripping at Jean’s arms hard, too hard, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Because if he let’s go...He can’t understand his mind a confused mass, the light from the bedside lamp too bright. _

 

_ “I’ll turn it off.” Jean manages to reach over, plunging them into the darkness, leaving the fire as the only light in the room. And that helps. It helps which is strange because usually it’s worse  _ _ when he can’t see Jean. Can’t know that he’s safe.  _

 

_ Jeans stares at him through the darkness, the whites of his eyes the only thing he can see clearly. “Bad one huh?” _

 

_ And he nods, grateful that the darkness hides him. Because it’s stupid. Stupid that his own mind can torture him this way.   _

 

_ “What to talk about it?” He opens his mouth to deny it and finds that he can’t. _

 

_ “They were going to kill you.” He said, his voice sounding hoarser than it usually does. “Because you wouldn’t leave me.” _

 

_ Jean sighed. “Wipers?” he asked. And it must be. It has to be Ypres, because that where they came closest. Where the shell fell and it could have...Only it feels wrong.  _

 

_ “We’re safe.” Jean says and that’s a lie and they both know it.  The immediate danger, the war, is over. But they can both see the writing on the wall; both know the dangers brewing in Germany. Jean worries for his boys, now sleeping in their beds above him and Armand...Armand worries for Jean. Jean, who alright is no longer able to fight, but who he is sure will meet the danger head on.  _

 

_ He wishes he could take Jean somewhere, anywhere where he would be safe. But perhaps that’s impossible. _

 

_ “Just sit beside me.” He said, “And,” He swallows. “Hold my hand.” _

 

_ “Of course.” Jean pulled the chair over from the desk and sat down next to him. His hand is rough, scared. A soldier’s hand, with a soldier’s firm grip.  It’s steadying. Reassuring. _

 

_ It will help him prepare for what he has to do. So he grips back and lets the other man talk of the latest escapades of his boys. It helps keep the darkness and the nightmares at bay. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a history of the progression that Armand is talking about in more detail, please see Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Revolution). Pamphlets fairly regularly accused Marie Antoinette of having affairs with both men and women, again see the internet for more details.
> 
> Dam you Armand, why when you try do to the right thing do your fans want to hug and strangle you at the same time?


	4. All these tigers who, mercilessly, Rip their mother's breast! (Depression)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It could only be Athos. He is just...The angst. This takes place about a year after the first three stories, during the reign of terror

He would be lying to say he has no regrets.

 

He regrets that D’Artagnan’s will be left here, left alone. He regrets the death of the ideal, the birth of this blood swollen monster that promised freedom and has instead brought tranny worse than any the king or his minster brought. He regrets the death of his brothers, though he rejoices that they will not witness this end for him. He regrets that he has being denied the chance to say goodbye to his wife. He regrets that Treville is no longer with them.

 

Treville would somehow have managed to pull this beast under control, like a rider controlling a bolting horse. He would have stop Robespierre long before it reached this stage.

 

He does not regret the blood that flows in his veins and he does not regret turning his back upon it. His family had wrestled control of their lands back from tyranny of kings too many times, but in doing so they had become tyrants themselves. Perhaps not on the estates, but in the towns, where the people starved for lack of bread and a queen could say “Let them eat cake.”

 

He does not regret the actions that brought him here. Does not regret listening when Treville had entered his cell and placed before him a candle and a book. .

 

It had taken him nearly a month to finish it, rationing it and the candle. Afraid to sludge himself, after so longer famine. Treville had seemed to understand. Had come daily, seen where he was up to and discussed the book with him.

 

At first, he had being unable to contribute much. His voice hoarse and sore from lack of use, his mind like a beast’s after so long. Treville had being patient. Had being kind.

 

He sometimes thought that was how he would always see the other man. The expression of genuine surprise and delight when Athos had disagreed with him about some minor point.

 

That book had being the first drink of water after a desert, the first breath after you had broken the surface. Treville had brought more.

 

Had introduced him to Aramis, to Porthos and Ultimately to D'Artagnan. To happiness the Count de le Fere could never even have imagined, painted his world a million colours many of which he had no name for.

 

Eventually one colour, Red, would dominate. It was easy to justify at first. The revolution could not afford to be seen to be weak. It had to be strong to survive. The deaths were necessary.

 

He would like to say he wonders when he stopped believing that, but he knows. When it was Treville.

 

Treville, executed because he was found with the Cardinal. Because Treville had always known about giving up on love. Had never questioned Athos over his brother (His brother who had betrayed him. Who had got the letter de cache, because he wanted power and the price of that power was his brother’s wife. And yet Athos still loved him. Had being unable to look upon his body in the courtyard of Versailles and not weep)

 

Treville who had tried, but ultimately failed to give up on the man he loved.

 

That had being when he stopped believing that the deaths were necessary.

 

He had order D'Artagnan to stay away. No matter what the boy might think, he did not need to see this. He had seen too much already (Aramis pieced by an Austrian sword, bleeding out on the battlefield, soldier’s death for whatever that meant and Porthos, typhus too small, too weak to have carried off that giant of a man).

 

They had arrest him after they buried Porthos. Speaking of his status as an enemy of the state and all he could do was tell D'Artagnan “Tell them what they want to hear.”

 

The lad had not being questioned, for which he is grateful.

 

He has already lost too many. He could not bear it if the boy were to face this.

 

He knows it’s cold from the garments that those gathered around the scaffold are wearing. Thin fingers poking out through woollen gloves and red hats everywhere. A steam of breath rising from mouths of the guards as they jostle their prisoners forward

 

He should feel it through the thin shirt, but he is honestly not cold.  Nor is he warm. He just...is. Existing above it all.

 

He remembers this from his first imprisonment. An acceptance, having gone so far away that nothing could hurt you anymore.

 

Only it could. That is the way of the world, the nature of man.

 

One of the guards spits at him. Athos didn’t even lift his hand to wipe it. There was no point. Soon it would be over.

 

He knows that D'Artagnan will make sure that Ninon is well cared for, even if the good sisters did not. He knows that the lad is safe for the moment, or as safe as anyone can be in this madness.

 

Anne visited him last night. He thought she would be triumphant or perhaps offer him his freedom in exchange for...something he could not give. Perhaps she realised that too, as she just stood staring at him. Then walked away, leaving him a candle and a book. Both remain in his cell unused for its next occupant.

 

His name is called, a Marseille soldier struggling over the syllables. He is the last in the line, so there are none to disturb as he walks forward, climbing the scaffold. Treville’s voice from long ago in his ears. Show them what you are by how you die.

 

They bind his hands behind his back. Show him the board, making jokes about razor’s and close shaves. He doesn’t respond. There is nothing to say.

 

His eyes scan the crowds, watching them. Seeing the children without bread. The refugees who have tramped to Paris to escape the war with Austria.

 

They had failed even in their most basic aim, to stop the people starving.

 

They slide the board forward; bring the collar down to hold him in place. If he were to look up, he would see the blade, red with blood.

 

His eyes are still scanning the crowd. Automatic, a soldier and a revolutionary constantly on the lookout for trouble, for traitors.

 

It’s then that he sees him. D’Artagnan. Standing near the scaffold. Too near.

 

No! He whispers. And then “NO!”

 

He struggles useless against the bonds, achieving nothing more than the laughter of the guards. He doesn't care. Let them kill him. Let them think him a coward. But do not let the boy see this!

 

But Madame Guillotine is merciless as her children. A whistling sound fills his ears and he is falling tumbling through the air.

 

Above the cries of Vive la republic! He swore he could hear one voice echoing his no. But then the darkness claimed him.

 

*********

 

_1944_

 

_Athos jerked awake, his broken hands instinctively going to his intact neck. Another dream, different to the others._

 

_Did his subconscious recognise what his mind refused to grasp, or had his ears picked up on the sound of tramping boots?_

 

_No guillotines here. Just the bullet in the courtyard and the body vanished into the stove. He had watched that dance play out more times than he could count over_ _these days, months, possibly even years since his imprisonment.  He had kept faith though and they had finally being forced to admit that they would get nothing from him._

 

_The others would survive. France would survive and would be free once again. Even if he would never see it. Even if he could no longer stand._

 

_Well, let them drag him to his death. He would not stop them._

 

_The cell door swung open and his hand came up instinctively to shield him from the light._

 

_“Gentlemen” he began in the hoarse voice they had left him. His eyes traveled over the graffiti littering the cell and rested for a second on his own modest contribution. Vive la France. “You must forgive me. I was not expecting you so early.”_

 

_He looked from one boy to the other, enjoying their discomfort as much as he was able. This was all such a stupid waste._

 

_“But I suppose we must not be late for our appointment.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the Reign of Terror (approx 1793-1794), those with aristocratic blood, even if they were not opposed to the revolution, were in great danger of execution.   
> The phrase "If they have no bread, let them eat cake" was commonly attributed to Marie Antoinette, but historian now attribute it to either Marie-Thérèse (wife of Louis XIV) or to Rousseau


	5. Spare those sorry victims, Who arm against us with regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finished. Thank you to everyone whose stuck with it and put up with my irregular updates.  
> Porthos is the character I find hardest to get inside his head on this fic, so I hope he's not too OCC.  
> It takes place about 2 months before the last chapter.  
> As for the reincarnation, well, I did promise a happy ending.

D'Artagnan had ridden for the doctor and Athos was lighting the fire. 

 

As despite nearly ten years and the best efforts of all three of them, Athos was not the best at lighting a fire.  In fact, that was putting it kindly and the best which could be said for it, was that caused amusement to those watching. 

 

Truthfully and they both knew it, it would have being best for D'Artagnan to light the fire before he rode for the doctors, but they also all knew that every second mattered and the delay caused might...So Athos had sworn blind that he could handle it.

 

Looking at the small pile of sticks, the flames just starting to flicker, he  felt justifiable proud.

 

“it’ll go out in a few minutes.” Porthos voice was a low rasp, but after 5 hours of nothing but fevered mutterings which made no sense even to Athos, he’d take it.

 

“Really?”

 

Porthos nodded, trying to push himself up from the truckle bed that they’d found in the ruins of the farmhouse.

 

“Need to feed a fire or it’ll go out. Like a cold.”

 

Athos’s heart fell. “A cold?”

 

Porthos nodded. “Feed a cold, Starve a fever. It’s what…” He paused as a fit of coughing overwhelmed him. “Aramis used to say.”

 

Athos looked away, reaching for some more wood. It looked like it had once being part of a table or a cart. Fragmented now and thrown away. 

 

“I wish it were true, mon ami.” He muttered, trying not to look at Porthos skeletal frame. If Starvation would cure a fever, then none of the men should be sick. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos coughed again. “Most of what he said was a load of bol_”

 

The coughing came again, more violently. Porthos was doubled over, the thin blanket, almost thrown off his shivering form. Athos moved to help, to do...something, he didn’t know what, but almost as suddenly as it started, the fit finished and Porthos waved him away, falling back against the bed.

 

“I miss the bugger though.” Porthos observed. Athos nodded, because he does too. And not just because if Aramis were here, then D'Artagnan wouldn’t be careering off in the dark in unknown territory in search of a physician. 

 

He misses him because Aramis was good and kind and knew the herbs and could charm anyone into doing anything. He misses him because, despite his lack of faith,  he knew the divine offices and could tell stories from the bible, despite being just able to understand the letters which made them up. He misses the priest’s bastard, the servant from the Seminary, the boy with big dreams which had being crushed and betrayed too many times, who reached his hand out for a confused ex-noble with the openness of Love and brought him and Porthos together. 

 

“We all do.” He muttered, because crying isn’t an option. Not here, not now. Porthos doesn’t seem to hear him.

 

“He could be a stubborn fool though.” Porthos sighed and added. “Do you remember after the Captain…” he swallowed and  Athos froze. They’d never talked about it. How can they? How do you move past killing the man who saved you?

 

It had being necessary, a kindness, but how do you?

 

“I try not to think about it?” He said, grabbing another log and throwing it on the fire, no longer sure if it was even alight.

 

“You saved him from the guillotine.”

 

“He betrayed us.” Athos yelled. The words echo around the room, too loud.

 

Porthos said nothing. He had said nothing then, Athos remembered and then like now, it feels accusatory.

 

“You disagree?” He didn’t give Porthos a chance to reply. “He left us, he ran to him, betrayed us_”

 

“He didn’t.” Porthos voice was quiet, but stubborn. “We lost no one because of the Captain.”

 

Athos snorted. “We lost him.” He whispered, suddenly. “Why did he…?”

 

Porthos paused, even his breathing so quiet that for a moment, irrationally, Athos thought he had lost him too. But then Porthos spoke again, the words steadied.

 

“Thought a lot about what happened. Had time, while dealing with the pup or with Aramis.” he said slowly. “Couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t make it make sense. Then I thought about the way he looked at..” He paused to let a fit of coughing pass. “Him. Richelieu. And I thought what if it was you? Or Aramis?”

 

Athos reached out, shaking his head. He wants to yell at Porthos. To tell him not to think such things. But they both know such things have happened. 

 

The Committee of Public Safety was set up just before they left Paris. Things filter back to them, or come to Athos through letters smuggled into  France by his sister in Law, who refuses to believe that he honestly agrees with the revolution with its ideals. Rumours even filter that they have execute Citoyen Philippe Égalité, though Athos can not see what advantages that would bestow.

 

Porthos stares back at him. His eyes bright with fever, but clear. “I’d have done the same thing.”

 

Athos bit down on his lip, his hand gripping at Porthos. 

 

“Do you believe in Heaven? Or do you think it’s just some shit the preachers came up with?”

 

Athos blinked, surprised by the change in direction. “I don’t know.” He admitted. “I want to believe that there’s more than this, but…”He paused, thinking of his family estates. Of the vision of Judgement that was in the chapel there. Heaven seemed extremely vague, almost non existent. Hell was shown in much more detail. Perhaps because Aramis was right and the priest used the threats there to control people. Perhaps because it was easier to picture revenge, than forgiveness. Perhaps simply the painter, like Athos, had seen hell on earth. 

 

“I do.” Porthos said. Athos wasn’t surprised. In many ways, Porthos was the best of them. A street rat, a child of the barges, he had known the cruelty of the world long before the revolution, and somehow believed passionately in it’s goodness. “Don’t believe in Hell though. We make that ourselves here.”

 

“So you believe everyone gets to Heaven?”

 

Porthos shrugged. “Why not?” 

 

Athos knows that there are some arguments to this, but Porthos doesn’t seem to honestly care about it. His eyes keep flickering, like they’re trying to close. He can hear footsteps on the stairs. D'Artagnan back with the doctor he supposed. He’s tired. He'll just close his eyes for a second.

 

_ */*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/* _

 

_ Porthos wakes to  a soft kiss on his brow, so soft he thinks he might of dreamed it and Aramis bending over him. _

 

_ “How are you feeling?” _

 

_ Porthos spared a glance for the box of tissues which seemed to have taken up permanent residence on the nightstand over the last few days. “Better.” he was aware he still sounded like Barry White, but at least he could pronounce the letters B and T again. _

 

_ Athos flicked across his line of vision, his face serious. “You don’t have to come tonight. No one will think any less of you if you just want a quiet night in.” _

 

_ “You shouldn’t have being in work today.” Aramis added in an I told you so attitude. _

 

_ “I’m fine.” At least it wasn’t Bine. “And I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” _

 

_ “Just because the Captain wants into Richelieu pants.” Aramis grumbled. “I still fail to see why D'Artagnan was allowed to pick the costumes.” _

 

_ “It’s favourite Book as a kid,” Porthos said, pushing himself off the bed and heading to the Wardrobe where the costume is hanging in its bag. “And Chronicles of Narnia had already being taken, they did Alice in Wonderland 2 years ago and someone,” He shot a glance at Athos. “Refused to give the captain a straight answer. So 3 Musketeers it is.” _

 

_ Costume isn’t that bad, honestly. Lots of leather, but not much more than he’d usually where on a night out. The hats though… _

 

_ He starts coughing again, and Athos and Aramis are over him in a minute. “I’m alright.” he said firmly. “And you don’t want this.” _

 

_ “If we were going to get it, I think we would have by now.” Athos offered. _

 

_ “Though there might…” Aramis mimes a cough. “A slight tickle_” _

 

_ Athos’s right eyebrow raises slightly and Aramis shrugs. “Or not.” he suggests reaching over to pick up his hat. _

 

_ “We should count our blessings.” Athos continued, buckling the sword against him. “I met Robin from accounts  just as he was leaving or trying to do so at least. It seems his boyfriend had gone with the obvious option.” He paused and added “Green tights.” _

 

_ Porthos grinned. “Now I definitely want to see.” He pulled the gloves on with a final flourish. “Ready? All for one” _

 

_ “And one for all.” His lover's’ hands are warm on his and Porthos feels content. Hopefully, tonight can help the Captain get the same feeling. _

**Author's Note:**

> Tricolores were the women who knitted around the Guilliotine. Lettres De Cachet were letters that enabled the person named to be imprisoned at the kings pleasure, which could be for a long time. war neuthisa was the term originally used for shellshock. If there's anything you don't understand in the text, please let me know and I'll try and explain it.


End file.
